Five Minutes to Midnight
by EbonyIvoryy
Summary: Two decades after the Promised Day, and a war in the north in emerging. EdWin children! Lots of OCs, but canon characters remain.
1. Prologue

**Title:** "Five Minutes To Midnight" 1/?  
**Author:** theothardus/ebonyivoryy  
**Character(s)/pairings: **Ed, Winry, EdWin children!  
**Rating:** T+... for language, I suppose?  
**Summary: **Two decades after the Promised Day, and another war in the north is emerging.  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own.  
**A/N: **I've been wanting to do a chapter fic for the next FullMetal generation for the LONGEST time. I already have all the lives mapped out for each of their children. :3 Now that it's summer, I have /some/ time to do this. /Some/ time. I'll still be pretty busy in the next few months, so I'll try to update this fic as much as I can.

_**~xxx~**_

_**Prologue;**_

Bullet shells and blood splatter. Smoke and sopping wet trenches. These are the things a soldier is to expect when war is waged; this is his presumed grave.

That is exactly what Mr. Elric was told at boot camp. He would never forget the Lieutenant Colonel, with his rigid, scarred face and his bushy eyebrows, always pointed into a stubborn scowl. He often smelt of tobacco; his decaying teeth were proof of such habits. His hands were larger than a man's face and neck combined, each plump finger lined with grime and wrinkles. His chin launched out further than his roman nose. The crow's feet and stipe of gray touching his features revealed his age. The stars and badges on his uniform revealed his history.

To him, at the time, the Lieutenant Colonel was the most intimidating man he's ever met. He felt constantly looked down on.

So when the older man said those exact words—that he'd be heading to his "presumed grave"—what other emotion could he feel but fear?

And his superior was right. Every last detail.

As he climbed onto the battlefield, it was like swimming through an ocean of dead bodies, almost hoping he'd drown before he made it to the other side. Machine gun fire never ceased, and the occasional grenades made his ears ring if it landed too close. He couldn't be sure if it was overcast that day, or if the gray in the sky was simply product of tanks and other artillery. The odor was foul; like each body was already beginning to decay. He could have sworn he saw a raven pecking at a dead man's open wound.

His amber eyes narrowed at his opponents—the Drachmans—on the other side of the mountain of limbs. His irises were suddenly fierce, like a lion feasting on its prey. They were wild. A brilliant gold. The Xerxes blood definitely outshined his Amestrian traits.

How could fear just suddenly fly out the window? Maybe it was due to the fact that he saw his buddy blown to pieces only minutes ago. Rage was his gasoline.

His feet set off unconsciously. As he swiftly darted through the oceanic battlefield, he leaped behind other bodies, using them as shields against a downpour of bullets. Each and every time, though, he silently prayed for them and their families.

When he was so close to the front that he could barely touch it, something knocked him to the ground. It was another soldier, hollering as he ran head-first into the onslaught of Drachman soldiers. Mr. Elric was so stunned that he hadn't a chance to find out what happened to the doomed man.

As he hit the ground, moreover, his hard helmet slammed against his temple, soon after flying about a foot away. His musket was nowhere to be found, either. Grunting and groaning, he gripped the handgun in his pocket. He then scooted out of sight, trying to crawl behind the brush without being spotted.

Just when he thought he was safe, the eighteen-year-old slowly stood up and slipped behind a tree trunk. His stomach was uneasy, and his tense facial expression was evidence of that. Bringing the gun up to his chest, he took it off of safe and positioned his finger on the trigger. He refused to use alchemy. Not this time. Still, he wanted to be ready.

Instead of a surprise attack, he sat and watched his breath float from his mouth, taking the appearance of an apparition. Damn, it was cold. It must've been below freezing. He was much too tense to shiver, but his balls took no time in disappearing into his body.

Daydreaming was his one mistake. He began to think back, back to his mother, and the way she used to graciously churn the sugar in a large bowl of dough. The way she did everything—so graciously. Those war eyes he had gained since he joined the military transitioned into a soft gaze. _ So graciously._

But that was his worst mistake of all. Before he knew it, a man in black uniform jumped from the bushes, catching him off guard. Apparently, the soldier had no weapons, because he began to wrestle him for his handgun. The Amestrian clenched his teeth and attempted to point the gun (that rightfully belonged to him) at his Drachman enemy, but no avail. The two wrestled to the dirt, giving each other a few good punches in the face, as well as a sucker punch added to the mix. They rolled and rolled, grunting and seething; the gun had even gone off a few times, but no one was hurt.

"…_Fuck! _Get off of me, you bastard!" he howled, kneeing the Drachman to the groin. The guy flinched, murmuring a few foreign swear words, but his fingers wouldn't let the weapon loose. At last, he jammed the heel of the gun against the Amestrian's nose. He was bleeding, now, uncontrollably from his nostrils. Before he let his only defense free, however, he used his legs to knock the other man to the ground, buying himself some time.

He didn't want to do it, he really didn't, but his body was stronger than his mind. Out of outright fright, his fingers began to carve a circle into the moist dirt, as quickly as he could. He began to draw out symbols with shaking digits. Just as the other man came back to consciousness, he finished his transmutation circle.

The Drachman gasped and sat straight up, aiming the stolen gun at his enemy.

Unfortunately for him, he had no time to react when the Amestrian clapped and slammed his hands onto the ground, causing strikes of lightening to rise up from the Earth. In only a half-second, the Drachman soldier was fried from head to toe, the alchemical lightening pulling his heart to an immediate stop. With his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he collapsed to his death.

Finally, he was allowed to breathe. Mr. Elric let out and sucked in tremulous breaths, worn out from the hand-to-hand combat. His eyes were glued to the lifeless body that lied before him. His nose was stinging, his face aching. He probably looked like hell. Never had he experienced something like this.

He looked down to his hands. The tips of his digits were still tingling with sparks of lightening. He promised his teacher that he wouldn't resort to his alchemy—that he'd be a true _man_—and now, he had failed his teacher.

All of a sudden, his eyes caught sight of a snowflake, dancing in the air. It reminded him of a swan in the ballet, moving gracefully with its petit wings and breathtaking crystals. It eventually made its landing on his flesh, particularly on the flickering golden spark. The snowflake so-graciously cooled the heat residing on his fingers, returning them to body temperature (which happened to be thirty degrees under). It was almost as if the little snowflake was trying to comfort him.

Soon to follow, one snowflake after another began to descend from the ominous sky. While some continued to melt on his fingers, most of them landed in one particular spot—where the dead man lied. If there was a God out there, this was definitely a sign.

He was breathless at how supernal it was; perfect white flakes, either piling onto the Drachman man's form, or circling around him. As if the snowflakes were little angels, whisking his soul off to other worlds. Worlds without war.

His vision averted back to his palms. He could feel himself shaking, now. He insistently told himself it was just the cold… nothing more.

_Nothing more. _

Even the sound of footsteps failed to break his trance. He did flinch, however, when a heavy hand set on his shoulder. When he recognized the voice, he realized it was Captain Verlacher. How long had he been standing there?

"Amazing…" he deemed, just above a whisper. His voice revealed utter shock with a hint of praise and victory. "That's fine, boy…"

The private remained staring at his paws, silent.

"Who knew we had an alchemist on our team? Ya shoulda told me, private! Now that we have talent on our hands…" His grip grew tighter on the boy's shoulder. An astonished countenance transformed into a grinning, crooked one. "…I can put a good word in for you."

The next thing that the Captain said _did_ snap him into full consciousness this time. And when he said it, the boy couldn't help but look up at the Captain with his jaw to the floor.

"…How would you like to become a state alchemist?"

**_~xxx~_**

That fateful day, the day after the exam, he was eagerly accepted into the state alchemist program. Even as he unfolded the paper, he held in fits of excitement, trying to maintain a complacent look.

"…The Thunder Alchemist, huh?"

The General, a man he'd known since his childhood, sat humbly behind his desk, grinning. For him, it was like re-living the past. A déjà vu, if you will.

"That's right. Pretty simple, I'm sure you'll remember it," General Mustang stated.

The newly-promoted major frowned in protest. "_…The hell… _but my alchemy isn't even thunder! If it was, it would just make loud noises. You'd think Fuhrer Grunman would know the difference..."

Mustang simply shrugged his shoulders. Only an Elric would complain about something as mundane as the difference between lightning and thunder. "Maybe he thought it was catchier."

The eighteen-year-old made a "tch" at that, crossing his arms in a stubborn manner. Nonetheless, the General outstretched his arm anyway. "Congratulations, Thunder. You've certainly moved up in the ranks."

The "Thunder" Alchemist stared at his arm for a minute, reluctant, then finally lit up with a smirk, meeting his hand in a firm handshake. The two smiled, boring into each other with strong, sure eyes. "Yeah. Thanks, sir."

The General made a promise. He promised to become Fuhrer, he promised to fix the country, and he promised to never fall prey to his hatred again. He also promised a certain someone that he'd look after their son… and that was a promise he intended to keep.

"I wish you well on the battlefield, Theo Van Elric."


	2. Chapter I

**Title:** "Five Minutes To Midnight" 2/?  
**Author:** theothardus/ebonyivoryy  
**Character(s)/pairings: **Ed, Winry, EdWin children!  
**Rating:** T+... for language, I suppose?  
**Summary: **Two decades after the Promised Day, and another war in the north is emerging. **Disclaimer: **Just playin' with Arakawa's toys.  
**A/N: **Here comes chapter one. (Well, the first one was a prologue, so... herp.)

_**~xxx~**_

_**I.**_

The first cut.

When the world stops. When all falls silent. When time ceases to exist. When the people around you either move in slow motion, or quicken at the speed of sound.

It is when you look down at your patient on the surgical table, press the razor blade against their abdomen, and make that first cut.

If you ask a surgeon why they enjoy the first cut, they'll probably tell you the same. That it's "the rush". The adrenaline. The feeling that gets your heart pounding. Five doctors, four nurses, a human being's life in _your_ hands. Just one slip of the hand… and you're on your way to the hall, ready to inform their family that they would have to schedule a funeral in the near future.

But for Wendy, it was different.

She enjoyed the first cut; not for the adrenaline or chaos of it… but for the quiet.

As simple as that.

Maybe it was the simplicity of it that had her yearning for more.

Because, when all was quiet, she was at peace with herself. At peace with her mind. At peace with her body. At peace with her soul. Nothing could break her.

The sleep that she once needed no longer applied, putting her into an eternal wake. The back rub that she once wanted no longer existed, her tense shoulders put into a perpetual ease. Like a plant craves sunlight, she craved the inner anatomy, intrigued from the moment her scalpel penetrated the patient's flesh.

The sweet silence is what had her senses at an all-time-high. She felt like another person. An out-of-body experience, if you will. She was in the state of nirvana that took two lifetimes to reach.

The faces around her blurred. The clock's hand froze. All noise was mute. Quiet. Simple, beautiful, quiet.

"Hey, you!" A voice pulled her from her daydream, back into solid reality. "Intern!"

She had to blink a few times before recognizing the source of the voice. A tall man—sporting dark, slicked-back hair, hooded eyes, a clipboard, and a white coat—approached her from across the hall. The front office had been overwhelmingly busy that day, phones ringing off the hook and nurses darting around like a hive of bees, but this was nothing compared to the E.R.

As soon as the man reached her, he hit the back of his pen against the clipboard with an astounding _click_, beginning to scribble on what was probably paperwork. As he asked away, he didn't even bother to spare her a glance, his pupils making a beeline against the fine print.

"What's your name," he quickly inquired (or more accurately _demanded_).

Great. He was pushy, just as the other hot-shot doctors in this place.

Still, she couldn't help but be caught off guard.

"Ern… Wendy. Wendy Elric."

"Any middle initial?"

"No—"

"Birthdate?"

"September 24th, 1920—"

He whistled. "Young. How long you been in the medical field?"

"Since I was thirteen, I think—"

"How long you been here?"

"Two weeks, I think—"

"Been assigned to the E.R. yet?"

"No—"

"Then today's your lucky day, Elric," his voice boomed, but his eyes showed no interest. Those coffee irises of his were glued to the paper, not once looking to the intern, or anything else for that matter.

"We're short on staff," he briefly explained, "and we'll need all the help we can get. I hope you have some experience with cardiovascular."

"I've done a few surgeries here and there—"

"Good. Now's the time to prove yourself, intern." With that, he clicked the pen for a second time and placed it in his chest pocket. "By the way, you'll address me as Karev. I'm the Chief of Staff."

He finally met eye contact with the girl. Sure, he'd taken a fast glance at her only minutes ago from across the hall, but now, he was truly looking at _her_—not just some newbie intern—for the first time. She felt his observing irises move up and down her body, which didn't exactly put her in a comfortable place.

What he saw? A young lady, no taller than five foot two; with her sparkling, oceanic blue eyes, and her short, bright blonde hair, no longer than the napes of her neck. Her hair was sleek, bangs brushed to the side, and her complexion was a creamy ivory. Noticing her lengthened lashes, perfectly-molded nose, full lips, and heart-shaped chin, he couldn't help but acknowledge her attractive nature. Her petit curves weren't half bad either, and proved that she was still an adolescent ready to bloom. As he looked closer, he recognized a pair of diamond studs embedded in her earlobes, and a scar—as small as a dot—placed in the crease of her nostril.

Doctor Benjamin Karev almost lost sight of the task at hand.

"Urn…" he grunted, which was followed by a sheepish cough as he turned his heels on the girl. While he marched through the nurses, she remained unmoving, staring at his back in curiosity. Out all of the doctors she met here, none had taken the time to take a good gander at her. Not like he had.

Could he trust to recruit a sixteen-year-old to his team? After most people weren't accepted into med school until they were eighteen, let alone an internship. Whoever she was, this girl better be damn full of surprises. Who knows, maybe he had a prodigy in his hands.

"What are you waiting for?" he called out to her, not turning his head, but raising his hand in the air. "We have no time to doddle; a patient's life is on the line! Hurry up before I change my mind, intern!"

Her eyelids fluttered, and as the seconds ticked by, her gaze transformed from doting to determined. She had almost forgotten the primary reason why she became a surgeon in the first place. The drive to keep hearts beating.

"Ah… right!"

**_~xxx~_**

_Resembool, Amestris  
August 13th, 1920_

A dog's ear perked up at the sound of tiny footsteps. They were repetitive and quick, echoing through the empty house down the road. The canine huffed, his snout pointing into the humid air. Suddenly, his ears picked up another sound. The mellifluous tune of a child's laughter.

Inside that empty house, a little boy roamed the perimeter, his little feet bouncing in joy. He couldn't contain his fits and giggles, grinning ear-to-ear. His chubby arms extended at his sides like a pair of wings. His red-and-white striped shirt and beige shorts swayed with the nonexistent wind, while his caramel-colored loafers clicked against a mahogany-boarded floor. He couldn't wait for their new home to be finished. It may not have been as big as the yellow house, but running through it was like a new adventure!

On the other side of the house, a young man balanced himself onto a ladder, reaching the crease between the wall and the ceiling with his paint brush. He began covering a strip of white with the paint, which consisted of a light cocoa hue. His wife had picked it out for him; she seemed to know more about interior decorating than he did, after all.

Pausing, the man wiped a sweat with the back of his hand. He should've known to wear something lighter today…. especially in _August _of all months. His denim jeans, moth-eaten and encrusted in paint stains—not to mention his double layers of a white, long-sleeved sweater that lied beneath a green, form-fitting tee-shirt (also covered in splotches of paint)—weren't exactly summer attire.

All he could do was roll up his sleeves, turn his brown painter's hat backwards, and unlace his matching leather boots. He would just strip naked, but his wife would probably knock him into a thousand-year coma for such indecency.

The twenty-one-year-old began moving the brush up and down in slow strokes. He felt calm at this pace, painting the afternoon away.

Almost done. Just one more wall and—

_Click! Click! Crunch!_

All of a sudden, he heard the racket from the other side of the house grow closer. He could tell by the way the tiny feet went from _clicking_ to _crunching_, indicating that they had landed on the paper blanket, which was laid out on the floor to prevent paint from dripping onto the nice surface.

The man grunted and turned his head toward the hallway.

"Theo?" he called out to his son, "Slow down before you hurt yourself!"

In only seconds, a little boy appeared in front of him, tugging on his pant leg.

"Sowwy, daddy!" he hollered, a harmless grin lifting on his rosy lips. "Sowwy! Sowwy!"

"Sorry" seemed to be his new favorite word lately. Between Theo's expanding vocabulary and two encouraging parents, he always found new words to embrace and repeat.

Edward stepped down from the ladder. He then scuffled the crown of the toddler's head with his heavy-duty-gloved hand, flashing him a warm smile. "How about you stay here for now, okay? The house isn't safe enough for you to go wandering around yet."

The boy stuck his fingers in his mouth, responding with a muffled, "Mmmmhmmmm."

The man stretched and yawned, strolling over to a dried wall that he could lean against.

"I think it's nap time for daddy…" he murmured, slowly rolling to the ground. "Wake me when the… sun sets…"

Theo ran up to his recumbent form, pulling on his crumpled shirt sleeve. "Don' go sleepy, daddy! 'S not time t' go sleepy!"

His eyes were already closed, but that was just a bluff. He couldn't resist a smug grin.

The two-year-old began to bounce in place—what he and Winry normally called his 'potty dance'. He grumbled and tugged harder on Ed's shirt, whining, "Daaaaaaaddyyyyy! …Daaaaaaddyyyyyy!"

A chuckle escaped from his throat. Finally, he waved him off. "All right, all right."

Theo's eyes were two full moons, bright and round. He always had questions; always yearned for answers. "Daddy, why di'n't mama come wiff us?"

As his eyelids slid open, he responded, "I already told you…" He picked the boy up, setting him in his lap. "…Mommy's tummy is too big."

That answer didn't leave him satisfied. "But _why?_"

Ed pushed out an exhale. When it came to children, you needed to not only explain things thoroughly, but time and time again. "…'Cause she doesn't have enough strength to help us right now. She's carrying your little brother or sister in that tummy of hers, so she needs all the rest she can get."

Theo gave him a blank, but still questioning stare. He couldn't be sure if the boy understood or not.

"…Speaking of which…" he began, "…I think that Theo needs some rest, too…" He slid off his thick brown gloves, tossing them across the room. "…Whaddya say?" Following the offer, Edward took off his hat and placed it the other way around, angling it so that it would cover most of his face.

At first, Theo stubbornly pouted, but when he took two glances at his father, he felt the need to mirror the man he looked up to.

"…Sleepy time!" he whooped, plopping against Ed's chest and curling up into a little ball. He mimicked his father's exact position, throwing one leg over the other.

The corner of Ed's mouth lifted upward, his heart fuzzy at the sight. Once the little body in his grasp eased, he was relieved. He kissed the side of his child's head, murmuring a 'sleep tight'.

More than a year ago, it took more than convincing to get Winry to agree with his proposition. Just she and Ed, a house to themselves, able to eat, sleep, and have sex wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted. It sounded wonderful, but Winry remained reluctant to leave her grandmother in a house by herself. He had to constantly assure her that they would only be a few roads away, and she could check on Pinako every day.

Finally, she gave in. Now, here they were, a year later, almost finished with the house of their dreams. Surprisingly enough, it lied in the same spot as his childhood home. The ashes that once resided were no more… and he was perfectly content with that. It was even designed the same as the home he was born in—a two story house, big enough to raise a family, but quaint nonetheless, with its pointed roof. They had colored the roof's shingles, window frames, and doors green, to compliment the plains surrounding it. The house itself was a perfect white, to compliment the rare snow that typically came every twenty years.

Honestly, he wanted something to look back on. He wanted to be able to say that he built it with his own two hands, without the help of alchemy or any other necessities. He wanted to accomplish more than what he could write in books.

He sincerely hoped that his future children would set out to do the same.


	3. Chapter II

**Title:** "Five Minutes To Midnight" 3/?  
**Author:** theothardus / ebonyivoryy  
**Character(s)/pairings: **Ed, Winry, EdWin children!  
**Rating:** T+... for language, I suppose?  
**Summary: **Two decades after the Promised Day, and another war in the north is emerging.  
**Disclaimer: **Just playin' with Arakawa's toys.  
**A/N: **LJ was being a bastard and wouldn't let me post this fic due to its length, thus why I'm staying strict to posting it on FF. Review if you must! c:

* * *

_**Chapter II;**_

_**~xxx~**_

"Al!"

Panicked, shifting eyes skimmed the bustling town. The soles of his shoes skidded against the pavement; twisted around in the dirt. He swore to himself that he'd check every shop, every alley, every corner, _every crevice_ of Rush Valley until he found his son.

"Have you seen a little boy? About ye high, blond hair, blue eyes, wearing a gray collared shirt?" is what he would ask every passerby on the street. The more people that crossed his path, the quicker the words escaped his mouth, syllables beginning to slur. He wasn't sure if it was a panic attack, or just the valley heat making him dizzy and delirious.

Oh, boy… if Winry found out that he lost Alexander…

Edward tugged on his roots, grinding his teeth in frustration. He'd probably put _himself_ in the guillotine for this.

Little did he know, the five-year-old was sidling along the back alley of a bakery, only a block away from him.

The child's orbs were bright and inviting, absorbing every characteristic of Rush Valley. He always enjoyed the trips to his mother's shop; the tinkering, the hard-working spirit, the smell of oil and fumes, all kinds of tools spread everywhere, how all the people had those… funny-looking, shiny limbs. He was amazed at how many did the same thing that his mommy did.

This place was definitely different than back home in Resembool. No grass, no fluffy sheep, no farmers. None of the adults waved at you. Well, unless they knew he was Winry's son.

Rush Valley was a foreign land, a whole new world—one full of adventure. Playing the role of a brave five-year-old, he lived for adventure.

Alexander went from strolling to frolicking, dimples digging in his cheeks at the thought of it. Him, an adventure. This joyous town, all to himself. Maybe he'd find a treasure! Or, better yet, save somebody from a tentacle monster! No more mama and papa, no more mean big brother and sister, no more loud babies, just him and the great outdoor—

"_Oof!_" All of a sudden, he was knocked down by something. Something his size, probably. Whatever it was, it made an insistent panting noise, and a few whimpers here and there.

The boy rubbed the crown of his head, moaning and groaning. Instinctively, he reached down to feel what had pounced on him. As his fingers curled, a cluster of what felt like… hair… bunched in his palm. He pulled it lightly, but it didn't budge. It must've been attached to something. He pulled it a little harder, getting a whimper as a response. Still, he was too dazed from the fall to actually look down.

At last, he grabbed hold of the lock of hair and yanked it with every inch of his mighty force. A high-pitched yodel rang in his eardrums, causing him to quickly let go. The weight lifted off of him in an instant. As he slowly sat up, he laid eyes on a little girl about his age.

Her cocoa head of hair practically had the length of Rapunzel's. Accept for the tangles, that is, which covered almost every inch, with one particular knot at the top of her head. Her face was dirtied, her elbows and knees were cluttered with scrapes and bruises, her puffy-sleeved, pink dress might have once been beautiful, but was now in rags. Her little bare feet were out and about, tiny toenails jagged, a layer of asphalt on the soles. Her hands were dangling like a ragdoll's, looking worn and ragged. He wasn't sure if the tiny dot beneath her left eye was a birthmark, or a speck of dirt.

On the other hand, her green eyes had a sharp glisten, with layers of dark eyelashes to frame it. The lips she possessed were soft and pouty, as if she hadn't spent one day without hydration. The frame she possessed was small and filled out with baby fat, as if she hadn't spent one day without starvation.

"Owwwwwaaauuu… That _hurt…_" The little girl rubbed her head; she could feel a bump nested within the knot of her hair. "Hey, you… Why'd y'do that?"

Alexander looked at her with intrigue, sapphire eyes blinking. So much so, that he couldn't form a coherent word. "Ern… Uh…"

She hugged a loaf of bread to her chest—one that may have rolled on the ground a few times. She seemed almost… _protective_ of it. As if it was her lifeline. Her lips curled into a further pout.

"Huh?" The sound rushed from her windpipe, obviously impatient. Maybe she thought he said something, or maybe she was just giving him a hard time.

"I… but… urng—"

Suddenly, footsteps. They intruded into their "conversation", getting faster and louder as time went on. He could hear them from around the corner. Apparently she heard them too, a look of distain turning into a look of dread.

"_Eeep!_ They're coming! Hide me!" the girl shrieked, leaping behind him with hope that he'd be her human shield.

"Hnuh?" The blurry syllables continued. His blinders were comical, wide as saucers. His head was turning every which way, looking frantically in every direction.

Two voices matched with the footsteps. It sounded like a few men, who were obviously infuriated.

"She went this way!" one declared.

As the footsteps came close, she balled the back of Alexander's shirt with her fists. He gulped, unaware of what was to come. In an instant, two men came skidding around the corner.

They huffed and puffed, halting as they spotted the children before them. One was plump and round, with his curly auburn mustache to complete the picture. The other was taller and gawky, missing the facial hair that his fellow companion had. They both wore those odd-looking outfits that Alexander recognized... didn't bakers wear them? Or was it chefs?

The plump and round one took a stomp forward, steam pouring from his nostrils. He was intimidating, even if he looked like Chef Boyardee.

"Hand over the girl, boy," he demanded, advancing slowly toward them.

With each advance, the girl behind him grew smaller and smaller; when he noticed he was shaking, he realized that it was her trembles that shook him. Whatever was happening, he felt it was wrong.

Alexander stood his ground. Whenever he was determined, his nose and eyebrows scrunched up and blood rushed to the center of his face. Mommy called it his "tomato face".

"No!" he hollered, pointing one chubby finger at the man. "Go away, you stupid!"

Most adults had tolerance for kids, but this was not the case. Chef Boyardee's knuckles cracked under the pressure of his fists.

"Fine!" he spat. His large hand launched forward, shoving Alexander to the wall and grabbing the little girl by her collar. "I'll have to take the little thief by force!"

"No!" she shouted in protest, kicking with all she had. Even then, she refused to release the loaf of bread.

The impact of the brick wall caught Alex by surprise, the rims of his eyelids brimming with tears. No, he wouldn't cry. He's a big boy. A little man, even. If anything, he would only cry because he's angry, not because he's a crybaby. As strong as he could be, the boy looked up from his knees, wearing a tight-lipped frown and watered eyes. When his eyebrows furrowed, it completed the lovely tomato face.

The moment he saw the man shake her violently, he roared, "Let her go!"

The man ignored him, though his crony had no problem responding. "Shut up, kid! You shouldn't be defending dirt like her!"

He never heard a person referred to as dirt before. What did that mean? It didn't sound nice, whatever it meant.

"I'm going to teach you some respect!" the plump man growled to her. "And after, you'll know to stay the hell away from my bakery!"

Alexander had to act quickly. It looked she was going to be in a world of hurt if he didn't. With speed only squirrels could mimic, he sprung at the man, sinking his teeth into his leg. The man howled and let her go.

As soon as she plopped to the ground, Alexander took her by the hand and screamed, "RUN FOR IT!"

They practically tripped over each other's toes as they fled down the alley way, him dragging her like a kite at one point. He made sure to look back and stick his tongue out, mocking, "See ya later, fatty!"

Their tiny feet sped up at his deafening roar.

"_GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE BRATS!_"

**_~xxx~_**

One block later, they were out of breath, out of speed, and out of energy. The sticky desert air certainly didn't help. Hey, even children had their limits.

Alexander's hands were on his knees, sluggishly moving until he couldn't move any further. The little girl hadn't paid attention, weak and weary, bumping into him when he stopped.

"You… think… d'ere… gone?" He panted between each word.

Now she was standing by his side. "Uh…" Pant. "Huh…" Nod.

His hand was on his chest, attempting to catch his breath. Both of them stood in place for maybe five minutes, though it seemed like ten. Finally, curiosity spilled from the boy's mouth.

"…Why was'dose mean old men chasing you?" he inquired.

She sat against the wall of a market, looking out to the bustling street. No one took notice of the children.

Taking a whiff of the freshly baked French bread, her mouth and eyes began to water. It was a little burnt on the bottom corner—probably the reason why the baker had thrown it out. Such a waste.

"He didn't wan' this bread, so I took it," explained the girl. She was tempted to eat a chunk of it right now, but unwillingly refused. She had to save some for daddy.

"…'s not nice to steal, y'know." Alexander crossed his arms. He didn't know much about thieves, being that Resembool lacked them, but knew a thing or two about morals, something mama and papa made sure to nail through his brain.

She then retorted, "'S not stealing if he didn' wan' it!"

Alexander watched as she tightened her grip on the loaf. Her eyes bored into his, heavy with determination. There was obviously no way of changing her mind.

Sighing, he joined her in sitting. His knees bent, and his stare stuck to them. "I guess so."

They were still for the longest time. Conversation was not exchanged. The street itself was loud and busy, but it was easily merged with silence.

He couldn't help but notice that the bread was left untouched.

"…Aren't you gonna eat it?" he asked, glancing over to her.

Her answer was simple. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I gotta save it for someone."

"For who?"

She finally looked at him. "Why d'you ask so many questions?"

Defense washed over his form. "I just wanna know!"

"Well 's nona your bee's wax!"

His lower lip quivered in anger. "Whatever!" he spat, turning the other cheek.

They lost conversation once again. He didn't even know why he bothered helping her. She was just another stupid girl. Just like his sisters, or those yucky ones at school. He could be out looking for treasure or slaying a monster, but instead was stuck here with the dreaded female.

By this time, the girl was sure that he was done asking questions. Boys were annoying. And mean, too.

"…What's…" His voice peaked up for a second question. She was ready to turn around, beat the snot out of him and walk home, but his last two words tamed her. "…your name?"

From the look she gave him, he knew that he was in for it, but after one blink, that all changed. A smile perked up her maw, blush collecting on her cheeks.

"Allison," was her answer. Her smile grew. "Scott!"

His head cocked to the side. "You have two names?"

She belched out a giggle. "That's my last name, silly."

"Oh…" His lips mirrored the sound, forming an 'o'. She sent a blank stare his way, as if she was… waiting for something. When he didn't say a word, she decided to ask herself.

"What's yours?"

He responded same as her, with a blink and a smile. "Alexander! …But m'brothers and sisters and mama and papa call me Al. And sometimes they call me Little Al. 'Cause you see, I have a big uncle named Al but he's not Alexander he's just Alphonse and—"

She set a finger on his lips to shut him up. Then, she said through giggles, "I get it, I get it. You talk a lot!"

He glared at her, but couldn't come up with much of a comeback. "No, you!"

More giggles pushed through her throat. "You're weird."

His face was red, now. "Well… You're a _girl!_"

"So?"

"Girls are weak and they cry all the time!"

"Yeah, well, boys are mean and they smell gross."

"Better than a crybaby!"

"You're still weird!"

"At least I'm not a—"

"There they are!" The booming voice of a man caught their attention, and as they saw who it was, their hearts froze. It was none other than "Chef Boyardee". This time, he had two fellow bakers standing at his side. His fat finger pointed to them, roaring, "Don't let 'em get away!"

Alexander and Allison jumped to their feet. They ran like wildfire, not caring who or what they knocked down, as long as they could get out of harm's way. In spite of this, they made sure not to lose sight of each other. Allison had been so focused that she collided with a barrel of auto parts, falling unfortunately to the ground. The men gained speed. Little Al heard her pleas and looked back to find his friend in danger. He knew he had to go back. Throwing himself into danger, he grabbed her hand, helping to her feet and continuing to run.

After some time, the voices of the men faded. When Alexander looked back, they were nowhere in sight.

"…Think they're gone?" he asked breathlessly. Allison looked back as well, unable to make a true judgment.

Just as her lips parted, the baker cut off their path. His mustache drooped lower than her frown. "Not so fast!"

Nonetheless, Alexander wouldn't let him slow them down. He yanked the girl's arm, circling around the man before he could make a move. He ran so fast that he lost track of the world in front of him. A pair of legs knocked him to the ground, pulling Allison along with him.

He was about to apologize to the person he had knocked into, but before he could look up, his name was called by a very familiar voice.

"…Al?"

At first, the rays of the sun blocked the mysterious voice holder's face, but as it gradually came into view, his berry-plucked eyes lit up. He was saved!

"Dadd—!"

Two strong arms swung around him. His ribs were nearly crushed by such an embrace.

"_Good… good… _you're safe…" his father heaved. As he pulled away, he let out a more… comical sigh. "Now your mom won't have to use the guillotine."

Little Al didn't know what a guillotine was or why his mother wanted to use it, but he did know that a five-foot, two ton man was after them, and they didn't have much time to get away.

The striking, golden orbs of his father shun down on the girl beside his little boy. He barely took in her sad appearance, only acknowledging innocence on legs.

"Who's your friend?" Ed smiled at her, sending nothing but a friendly vibe. He stayed in a crouch to speak eye-level with them.

"They're right there, boss!"

That statement made the three turn to the source of the voice, only to see one of Chef Boyardee's cronies running toward them. He was followed by another, who was followed by the "boss".

The kids immediately ducked behind Edward. He lifted an eyebrow; he didn't have enough time to put the pieces together, unfortunately. Before he knew it, the men circled around him, chasing and throwing their paws at the little ones.

He needed to put a stop to this. Edward stood up straight, face and body language stern. Alexander and Allison clung to his pant legs, their eyes barely peeking out from behind him.

"Excuse me, sir?" His tone was calm and controlled, yet ultimately intimidating. "What do you think you're doing?"

The boss was about to bite his head off, but as he looked up, the very picture of Mount Everest towered over him.

"Eh… U-Uh…" he stammered. "W-Well, you see, I, uh… that little girl stole from my shop, you see… and that little boy helped her get away."

Edward stepped forward, pushing his chest outward. His fists clenched. Whatever this stranger's intentions were, it didn't put an easy feeling in his stomach. "That _little boy_ is my son."

The baker's followers weren't so tough now, slowly backing away while plotting ways to abandon their boss. The baker himself took a step back as well, voicing a series of stutters.

"Wuh… buh… ern… ung…. b-but they're thieves! Especially that _girl! _A piece of garbage, a piece of dirt! You know, I can have you thrown away, too!" His finger jabbed into Ed's chest. The motion wasn't the smartest form of a threat—not in the slightest.

His blinders burned a hole through the man's finger, jaw muscles tightening. With a stiff grip, he pushed his hand off of him. Angry shadows casted over his eyes; his arms crossed over his chest. The baker nearly stumbled over his heels as Edward took another large step.

"I advise you stay away from my son _and_ that little girl…" His face leaned in, trying to hold in a snarl. "Leave."

The man stared at him wide-eyed. When Ed's words elicited no reaction, he added, "_Now._"

All three bakers fled the scene in a flash.

By the time that they were gone, Allison had realized something urgent. Something important.

"My bread!" she gasped. "It's gone! I musta' left it!"

Alexander began, "It's okay. We can buy anotha' one…"

"No! That was my dinner! Our dinner! Now daddy's gonna be mad at me!" Both boys noticed as her eyes began to swell with tears.

"Hey, now… Don't cry…" Edward waved his arms around, bending his knees. "We can get you home safely. Where do you live?"

She sniffled. "Daddy doesn't like visitors…"

"Oh… Well…" Mr. Elric fit his chin in his palm. When the idea appeared in his mind, he perked up. "How 'bout you eat with us? We have apple pie." He grinned.

She looked at him in curiosity. After blinking a few tears away, she looked to her bare feet, in which were pointed together. Her fingers ran against the side of her arm.

"Mama's makin' apple pie?" Alexander hopped in excitement. He interlocked his arm with hers, starting to pull her along with his father as they made their way back to the shop. She never even answered a "yes" or "no", but they insisted. Besides, she's never had apple pie before.

**_~xxx~_**

_January 5th, 1937_

He had dressed for a busy day. A bustling day.

Thick and bulky brown gloves hugged his calloused hands. A jumpsuit—more of beige decent than brown—blanketed his five-foot-six body, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The front was left unzipped due to the heat, revealing a white tank top beneath that hung loose on his form. It was marked with oil stains, some from yesterday, some more recent. He shifted uncomfortably at the feeling of his feet drowning in pools of sweat; those steel-framed boots he wore were certainly not made for hot weather. Though he already had tied his upper shoulder-length hair into a tiny ponytail, he took the extra precautions and wrapped a green camouflage bandanna around his head.

The fifteen-year-old was geared up from head to toe, all for nothing.

His chin rested upon the front desk, eyes half-lidded and lacking interest. His hands kept themselves busy, putting pieces of automail together, taking them apart, putting them together, and taking them apart some more. As Allison watched, it reminded her of a child reconstructing a puzzle again and again while spending an uneventful summer at their grandpa's. She was growing bored herself, crossing her arms and legs as she reclined on the chair beside him.

He snatched a screwdriver, twisted each screw out, and organized them by number, material, and size. He did so lazily, his fingers dragging back and forth; not once did he lift his chin, or look the slightest bit interested.

Allison continued to watch him. Her finger twisted around in a strand of her sleek, brunette hair. She twisted and twisted—oh, how she could use a piece of bubblegum right now.

She exhaled. Being the daughter of a blacksmith and often doing the work of one, she was used to wearing heavy clothing under heated conditions, but when she wasn't working her muscles, the heat seemed to bother her. The girl used her other hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. January in Rush Valley was always unpredictable—one day it would be ninety degrees, the other would be a chilling rainstorm. Maybe she should dress in something lighter—something that isn't _work _gear—next time she visits Alexander. A light blue jumpsuit and bandanna just wouldn't do it, and her toes were boiling in those beige boots of hers.

For once, she tore her gaze from her childhood friend and to her lifted leg. Her laces, which were like crisscross mini-ropes, were loose. She re-tied them about three times before getting it perfect. After that, she had to find something else to keep her occupied.

Allison collected a straw and two pieces of paper. She started to tear the paper into little pieces, turning them into spit wads. Pushing it into the straw, she aimed stealthily… and fired.

The wad got him right in the ear.

Alexander was too focused on the parts, however. He merely thought it was a fly or a mosquito, or something of that sort. She could tell by the way he slapped his ear with his palm, grunting a little, but not turning from his "work".

Nonetheless, she didn't fail to push another one in the straw, wrap her plush lips around it, and blow.

The next one hit his bandanna, but the force was much too light to notice. Sighing, she blew another spit wad his way, but that one hit his well-protected shoulder.

Rolling her eyes, she decided another way to get his attention. The young lady whispered into the straw, "_Alex._"

Either he was deaf, too focused on the screws, or pretending not to hear her.

The whisper after that was a bit louder and more dragged out. "_Allllleeeeexxxx_~…."

Days weren't usually like this. If there was no automail to maintain or car to repair, she and Alexander would explore every corner of Rush Valley. Maybe they would clean up Garfiel's shop, maybe they would hike through the canyons behind town, maybe they would wreak havoc in the town itself. Hell, they were teenagers. Moreover, she was surrounded by _male_ teenagers, which was never a good idea. Especially when they had nothing better to do. Luckily, most of the guys were in school, or too busy helping out their dads in their own shops.

"_Psst_." Allison brought the straw back to her lips. "_Alex_."

This was followed by another spit wad, flying straight into the side of his face. He indeed felt it this time, flinching with a disgruntled frown. He didn't give her a reaction beyond that, though.

Before she knew it, she was out of both spit and wads. She let out a long, audible groan, flailing her arms into the air. He said nothing, did nothing, thought nothing. She couldn't take it anymore!

Allison squinted her eyes. If she focused hard enough, she could see light golden hairs resting on the back of his neck. God, they looked so pluck-able.

The corner of her mouth tugged up in a devilish sneer. Her dark, thick, perfectly arched eyebrows knitted together. Her digits reached out, pinching the air like a crab, slowly making her way to the back of his neck. At last, she closed the pads of index and thumb on a single hair, taking one big pluck.

His eye twitched. A little oxygen escaped his nostril. In spite of this, Alexander continued to ignore her.

"_Alex_."

She waited. No response.

Leaning forward, her lips separated—almost seductively—and she plucked a second hair.

"_Alllleeeexxx~…_."

Why wasn't he giving her a reaction? Right about now, it was his turn to say, "What the hell, woman?"

Of course, he didn't. He continued to stay silent.

She bit down on her bottom lip, tongue dancing behind them in frustration. Eh, at least she got the pleasure of annoying him. Annoying Alexander was one of the single most fulfilling things in the world. Her world, that is. Ever since she was five-years-old, she's devoted her life to getting him agitated.

Her crab claws sneaked another hair from the back of his neck. He was _so close_ to sucker punching her… _so close_.

Allison tilted her head to the side. Just when she was about to pluck the next hair, her hand drifted to the top of his head instead. She would wait a few seconds. If he said nothing, she would proceed in lighting his fuse.

One.

Two.

Pluck.

"_Alex—_"

"WHAT?" the tempered boy snapped, twisting to her with fireballs for eyes.

She simply stared. After a blink or two, she fluttered her eyelashes. "Hello."

"…" His nostrils flared. Blood collected in the center of his face. "…ARGH!" He turned back around, pounding his fists to the desk. "DAMN IT, WOMAN, IS IT YOUR _MISSION _IN LIFE TO MAKE ME MISERABLE?"

He wasn't looking, but she still nodded—very slowly.

Leaning in, she giggled and pinched his arm.

"Ow!" he hissed. "You're so annoying!"

He folded his arms, ranting in mumbles. At some point, he rambled, "…You're lucky you're a girl, or I'd…"

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Such a temper. You'll never get a girlfriend acting like that." On the inside, she was laughing.

Blush spread from his nose to his cheeks. What he wanted to say was, "Why the hell would I ever need a girlfriend?" but refrained. Instead, he had to think of something snappy. A quality comeback.

In a low voice, he retorted, "Well _you'll_ never be gettin' a boyfriend with a flat chest like that."

Ah, the "small boobs" card. He used it ever since they hit puberty, even though she was still growing and becoming more voluptuous by the year. Not that he noticed. He just used it as an easy insult. It was simple, really. Girls' insecurities lie within their bodies, while boys' insecurities lie within their ego.

It was obvious when the sunshine and happiness Allison had obtained fled from her form; her joyous countenance melted into that of a serious one.

She stood straight up, towering over the sitting boy. "EXCUSE ME?"

There was no doubt, he was intimidated, but he still held his ground. His mouth tightened in a thin line, eyes wide. "YOU'RE NOT EXCUSED!"

Train whistles blew from her ears. Her fists balled, knuckles paling. "YOU ARE A JACKASS!"

To finish this off, she stomped on his foot with her own. Damned steel frames—didn't even do their job.

His eyes bulged from their sockets, grabbing onto his throbbing foot. He screwed his jaw shut, trying to keep in the pained noises. The only thing he could get out was, "F-F-F-Flat chest! Flat chest!"

Appalled, she stomped on the other foot. He couldn't contain his comical cry this time. Damn, why are girls so violent?

The insults flew back and forth.

"Jerk!"

"C-Crazy!"

"Idiot!"

"Dumbass!"

"Asshole!"

"Flat chest!"

"_SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME AND SO HELP ME GOD I'LL—_"

Something stopped her. He wasn't sure what, but whatever it was, it had her mouth gaping; her eyes slowly lifted to some_thing_ or some_one_ behind him.

He could have sworn he felt a shadow overlap his.

Before he could look back, a very familiar voice crept up his spine.

"That's no way to speak to a lady. When the hell are you ever gonna learn?"

At last, Alexander turned around. In an instant, his oceanic eyes met with a pair of amber ones. As he took in the young man that stood before him, he immediately acknowledged his blue military uniform. The bandages that lied beneath them. The sac of belongings thrown over his shoulder. The worn and torn suitcase resting at his feet. The bangs that had grown out to a few thin strands framing his masculine face. The face and body that had gotten so masculine.

The mechanic's jaw dropped to the floor. It has been a good seven months since he's seen that face. Honestly, he wasn't sure to react with joy that the man was still alive, or anger and resentment for keeping them guessing.

Theo's lips crept up in a sly grin. "Good to see you, little brother."


End file.
